How the Struggle Stole Christmas

First of all, I want to apologize to all you, my loyal readers, for my sudden drop off the face of the earth. What with my job and my search for a more interesting job and my life and my search for a more interesting life and all this business with the red and the green and the birthday party for an infant (I don't know why people bother, really, I mean, it's like taking your kids to art museums or Europe or really nice restaurants if they are under the age of 8, they aren't going to get it and they are ruining it for the rest of us. Yes, I just said children ruin Europe, and I stand by that. Fact.) I haven't had a chance to chronicle my struggles, which is a real shame for all of you, as they have been PLENTIFUL. Ah, if we had world enough, and time...but we don't and we live in a culture of speed, so instead of giving you the Russian-classic length story of my comings and goings (and fallings...) of the last month, I'm going to enumerate them in list form for you instead. So sit back, relax, and hunker yourself down for a litany of someone else's bad decisions. After all, tis the season.

My Naughty List:
1. During the whirlwind rush that is Hanukkah (which came way too early this year, I mean, that thing practically arrived before Thanksgiving. Thank you so much, ancient harvest calender, for having me stuff myself with Turkey AND latkes in the space of one week. You're a peach.) I went up to New York for a reading of a new play I wrote. The reading itself was a mixed bag, the good being that I go to hear the play and the bad being that it would of been nice to have people who can actually speak English reading it. But my friend Gabriel (hi, Gabriel!) was in it, so that's a win.

2. In New York, I stayed with my friend Michael (hi, Michael!) in his apartment (tiny by Struggledelphia standards, a veritable Palladian Villa by New York estimates). After running up and down the West side like a maniac trying to see some so called friends (is it too much to ask that people drop everything in their lives and come find me the second I arrive in New York? Oh, it is? Crap.) Michael and I celebrated by making dinner, drinking copious amounts of Trader Joe's Finest vintages and braving the elements to see our extremely white, Jewish, well bred friend Aaron (hi, Aaron!) rap at a bar in the East Village. And you know what? He was secretly awesome. And Michael dropped me on the dance floor. Thanks, buddy.

3. Upon my return to the fair city of Struggledelphia, I found myself at a house party in Fishtown the very next weekend with my friend Kate (hi, Kate!). One look inside the converted garage/performance space/living room up in the heart of blue collar white supremisist Northern Fishtown, and Kate and I realized we were way too dressed up for this. Not only were neither of us sporting awkward facial hair, chunky thrift store sweaters or tights and shorts (no. just...no) but we had committed the cardinal sin of cleanliness. If you think about it, there is something really bizarre about the icon of the dirty hipster. Hip away all you want, folks, but if you are going to be in a confined space for any amount of time, at least consider sporting a pinch of deodorant. Isn't that what Toms of Maine is for?

4. Decided that I'm in no place to drink PBR, even if it's meant to be done ironically, I curled up with a hot toddy (nothing says Struggledelphia like a colonial themed beverage) and enjoyed the spectacle and the scream band. After enjoying ourselves for a few hours and bowls of vegetarian chili, Kate and I realized our lack of hand rolled cigarettes weren't making us any friends, so we absconded with our clean hair still intact.

5. The next evening, I won quizbowl. That's right, true story. So despite the fact that my not-Yale education has yet to procure me a job in my field, a handsome and extremely successful trophy husband, OR world dominance, at least I can still earn the respect and envy of my peers by answering questions about Christopher Marlow quotes and the population of Latvia. Happy Holidays to ME.

My Nice List:
1. Um, I give money to same charities....

Oh, screw it, I've got nothing. Happy whatever-the-hell you do this time of year, and be safe. Make me jealous with your New Year's plans in the comments. Me, I'm thinking about renting a movie.

Farce, Thy Name Is Struggle

Sometimes life is lovely, wonderful and shining, full of possibility. But most of the time? It's not. For example, I SHOULD be out there, enjoying the the gorgeous fall weather here in Struggledelphia, frolicking amongst the leaves, wearing cute sweaters and drinking pumpkin lattes (of course, I would never do that last one because I dislike pumpkins and really really dislike lattes) but instead I'm sitting in my home shotgunning tea and getting really into Make it or Break it (it's seriously hilarious, I can't stop watching it. I hate you, Hulu.) And how did this happen, you may ask? Well, that's sort of a long story.

I should back up here, and explain that I am of the opinion that life is like one of those Rube Goldberg machines, that is, it takes about 8 million steps and reactions before the chicken hits the ball (or spills the water or lights the lamp, whatever, Rube Goldberg was a sick man). So the story of how I got sick (first cold since Hamburg in March, not to shabby, Franqui!) is therefore not just point A to point B, but involves many little steps in between. And the steps are as follows:

1.After a stressful week I lose my debit card AND my license while attending a truly painful production of Uncle Vanya with Mama Struggs. Killed my wine buzz from dinner, luckily left my bank account intact.

2. Poor Mama Struggs rolled over something (Broken glass? Stick with a nail in it? Switchblade? Scythe? You never can tell in my neighborhood!) and two of our tires suddenly underwent an air-reduction. That was fifty percent of our tire, right there.

3. Then Mama Struggs got sick. In a valiant effort to avoid illness I tried to create a three foot barrier around us at all time.

4. Unfortunately, because I live with and work with my parents, that proved more difficult then I had previously imagined. And what with the arrival of Strugglemano for my favorite holiday, the planning of said favorite holiday, and all the stress of, well, struggling, I woke up yesterday with the clogged nasal passages and throat on fire feeling indicating less then perfect health. Super.

So now I'm blearily staring at a computer screen, lightly congested, gently delirious, wondering when it would be acceptable to dive into the day's third bowl of soup. This better clear up before I have to spend the day arms deep in a turkey carcass. Although, that would give me the perfect opportunity to make the REST of my family sick while I'm well on my way to recovery...Something to think about.

Struggle Takes A Napa

There are many ways in which I am nothing like an early 19th century prospector/explorer. For one thing, my greatest fear isn't dysentery or rattlers. I'm certainly not interested in forming my own polygamist religion featuring terrible hairstyles and bunkers, nor am I often found searching the soil for gold. I bear no ill will towards Native Americans (or is it first peoples, now?) and while buffalo is DELICIOUS I can usually resist the urge to kill one when I see it. So clearly there is a strong divide between me, Leah Franqui, strugglextrodinare, and, say, Louis and Clark. Nevertheless, I recently found myself unable to resist that great and wild urge present in all members of the United States (at least according to Fredrick Jackson Turner). That's right, my friends, I went West.

More specifically, I went to San Fransisco. Apart from the fact that Padre Struggle had a hankering to see some free lovers-turned-litigators (can you imagine California Law Schools in the 1970s? It's like, guys, guys, guys, look at this legal brief, but really, LOOK at it. It's beautiful.), Strugglemano only lives a brisk 6 hour drive south (you can cross five state lines on the East Coast in the same time it takes you to get from Los Angeles to San Fransisco. I cannot understand California).

On day one the trifecta of struggle found itself awash in the salty breezes of the Pacific, climbing up hills, more hills, some other hills (we took a walk around the city and it was uphill BOTH WAYS. HOW IS THAT POSSIBLE?), peering at charming Victorian homes and their filthy hippie residents (thank you, Haight Ashbury, but I would not like a hit of that), stuffing ourselves with Dim Sum in Chinatown, dodging gangs in the Mission, and generally having a wonderful time. We walked so much on that first day that my shoe literally fell apart, and when I bought a new pair and asked to dispose of the now-derelict sneakers, I was advised to give them to a homeless person. They were accepted gratefully, I'll have you know, which just goes to show that one man's trash is another man's treasure.

Having all pulled leg muscles exploring the city, we decided to spend day two relaxing in Berkley. First we went to Chez Panisse for lunch, and the only appropriate word I have for Alice Water's flagship enterprise is FOODGASM.

Then we saw the university. Maybe it's just because I went to not-Yale which, despite it's many graduate programs and hugely inflated ego, is really rather small, but Berkeley seemed enormous to me. I mean, I can't understand how students navigate the place without becoming extremely lost! We comforted ourselves with Ethiopian food and South African wine, as one does.


Day three had us wandering the hallowed halls of Stanford, whose golden buildings and palm trees made me think of the University of Salamanca crossed with Hawai 5-O. At this point Strugglemano and I also learned a new life rule, that every major university in the United States has an Alexander Calder. Every. Single. One. Any evidence to the contrary is merely an illusion. I then spent the evening hanging out with high profile lawyers in their late fifties/early sixties. If I ever recover from that experience, I will let you know.


Day four, ah, day four, a day that will live in my dreams, day four, we went to Napa. Glorious Napa, fragrant with the stench of fermenting wine and expensive brunches, filled with rolling hills of grapes and, well, nope, that's it, grapes. Strugglemano, being our resident wine expert, arranged three tasting for us at three different wineries, and may I just say, there is nothing quite like the buzz of wine you will NEVER be able to afford consumed well before 5pm (East Coast AND West Coast time). Dear lord, it was glorious.

And so, several thousand pounds heavier (give or take), Padre Struggle and I boarded the plane back to Struggledelphia, while Strugglemano contemplated the long drive back to Southern California. Take heart, Strugglemano, car beats wagon trail hands down. Nothing like a Westward Ho! interlude to refresh the soul, eh? Or at least get it drunk enough so it forgets about work on Monday.

San Franstruggle Volume I

I just got back to Struggledelphia from San Franstruggle. It was my first trip to the Fog City, and, to be frank, I was not expecting to love it. After all, I have very negative feelings about the OTHER city in California (if you can call a place where a car is a non-negotiable a city...) and didn't expect to find a town built by robber barons and gold prospectors to be that interesting. However, I don't know what the hell I was thinking, because obviously anything built by robber barons and gold prospectors is BOUND to be awesome, number one, and number two, it was Padre Struggle's law school reunion, and number three, Strugglemano took a one-man six-hour road trip to meet us, and as a result, hilarity ensued. And while I will be happy to break down all the crazy in due time, for now, I'm just going to give you some images, and let you imagine the rest. The best story will get a large prize! And by prize, I mean bragging rights. Come one, don't give me that look, there is a recession on!

Struggle Cuts It Out

Liminal seasons as they are, fall and spring seem to be the times of year in which we most crave change. Call it spring cleaning (or fall dirtying? why doesn't fall get a thing?), but I always feel like doing something new when the weather changes, like changing my nail polish color or shooting a man in Reno just to watch him die or something. You know, something festive and fun. And normally I would be eagerly anticipating the change of seasons with joy, but this year, well, I can't really get into it. Why, do you ask? It's the silence.

You see, I've been applying for jobs for a few months now, and, things being what they are in the world, etc, I've found myself facing a flurry of rejection, a handful of awkward interviews, and a giant void of silence. The rejection I can deal with, I mean, I went to high school in the United States, so, I've got that down. The awkward interviews don't faze me, awkward is, frankly, my calling card, so I make it work, taking each one with a grain of salt, (and, later, a shot of tequila).  It's the silence that has begun to get to me, though, it's the silence that is bringing me down. You pour your heart and soul and the better part of an hour into a cover letter explaining in great but succinct detail how you would be the perfect development assistant/fry cook/baseball coach/mayor, and you check that everything is correct and that everyone possible has been thanked for their consideration, and then you carefully send it off by email/mail/carrier pigeon, and you wait. And wait. And wait. Godot himself walks by during your time spent waiting, he says hi, you two have some coffee, he moves on. And all you are left with is silence, nothingness, the sound of one hand clapping. No wonder they called it the Great Depression, because this is painful.

Look, I know that in this situation the companies and businesses and clown troupes have the power; there are ten million of me and only a few of them, I get it. And I'm certainly not expecting a hand written thank you note every time I send in an application. But really, is sheer silence the only option? Can't there be any kind of acknowledgement that I have, in fact, made an effort and you have received the fruits of my labor? Because as it is I can't help but imagine my job applications floating out there in the universe, blowing the wind, disturbing sleeping homeless people and amusing squirrels. I don't like squirrels, and I really don't appreciate the image of them getting acorn pieces all over my cover letters and mocking my special skills section on my resume. I'd like to see THEIR resumes, stupid squirrels...

In times like these when you find yourself confused, concerned, and contemplating squirrelicide, the best solution is to breathe, try to relax, and find yourself something else upon which to place your focus. And if you can't change your career path and the authorities wont let you hunt squirrels in public places, there is no better place to go then to your appearance. And so I cut off my hair. Well, I say I did, but really it was a nice man with expensive scissors and more product then that one character in Glee. After all, if change wont come to you, you might as well go out and find it.

So, I'm still applying for jobs, I'm still living in the huge hit of silence and suffering, and I still hate squirrels. But I look good. So, you know, net gain, I say. Happy October, people.

All the world's a struggle

Oh, man, I can't believe that the Live Arts/Philadelphia Fringe festival is over! It seems like only yesterday I was leafing through the Gutenberg Bible that is the guide, and now it's gone, with the wind, but without the southern accents, obviously. I saw punk rock musicals and telenovelas and children's stories and dance and music and all kinds of delights, and that was just in one weekend. And while there was just SO much good in this year's festival, there was also a large ratio of struggle.And I'm going to focus on that because, well, petty as it may seem, it makes me feel better to point out the short comings of others. Yes, I know, but at least I have the guts to express what we are all thinking, right? Happy Yom Kippur to ME.

And so, without further ado, I present my rules to you for how to avoid making bad theater. You know how they say only a very good actor can play a very bad actor? You will be interested to know that in my experience this is not always the case...

1. Don't offend the costumer. Seriously, don't do it. She/He/They will make you look so bad that small children will run, scared, screaming from the theater. And anyone who manages to stay and watch will be consumed the entire show with the question of what the hell you did to the costumer to PUT YOU IN THOSE SHOES. They will construct elaborate theories of how you ran over their puppy while holding their grandmother hostage and seducing their significant other and remaining at least ten pounds thinner then them at all times. And whatever else you are doing on stage will not at all matter because all they will be thinking about is that poor puppy. I promise you, this can all be avoided if you just buy the costumer a cup of coffee and compliment their shoes. Be cool, okay? Don't offend the costumer.

2. Don't write a play that is solely about your last failed relationship/job interview/search for the perfect pair of skinny jeans. No one finds it as interesting as you do, and the fact that you sit in the front row crying during each run is a dead give away. Living well is the best revenge. Setting your last personal tragedy to the music of the Beach Boys isn't.

3. Don't assume that just because it's a Fringe Festival no one will notice the lack of lights/sound/plot just because you've included nudity. They totally will notice. They may not CARE, but they will notice.

4. If you absolutely must do a pure improv show (and the jury's still out for me on this one, unless we are talking about my friend Ned, hi Ned! who is legitimately great at improv) please be legitimately great at improv. Otherwise it's like watching a young boy's bar mitzvah, it's awkward, everything is cracking, and even the after-party booze doesn't erase all the memories.

5. Don't do anything by David Mamet. Admittedly, this one might be a personal preference, rather then a real rule. Nevertheless, I'm allowing it.

So that's my advice to you. Stick to these five basic rules and you should be okay. Or, make a show that is entirely composed of these five elements and let the chips fall where they may. Who knows? It might be so deeply bad it's secretly awesome, like, say, the new 90210 or Vegemite . If that turns out to be the case, can you score me a ticket? Because I totally want to come.

I pray thee, good Struggle, wither goest thou?

If I were to be completely honest with myself, I would say that I am a person of supremely eclectic tastes. For example, I enjoy both Klezmer Music and the stylings of Jay-Z, I like a cool crisp glass of Sauvignon Blanc and well whiskey, I like quiet foreign films about relationships and I like Star Wars. Simply put, if my tastes were a vehicle, they would be the town bicycle, and almost everyone would get a ride. But if I can combine things, for example, listening to Klezmer, drinking wine and watching Star Wars, that's the optimal situation. So imagine my surprise and delight when Padre Struggle suggested that we spend our Labor Day NOT burning steaks on the grill or fighting through crowds of shwasted individuals of Italian American descent at the Shore, but rather attending the Pennsylvania Renaissance Fair. I, to be frank, kvelled. 

Let me explain something here. I love the Renaissance Faire. I have always loved and will always love the Renaissance Faire, and no amount of public ridicule or private humiliation will ever sway me from my vast abiding love of the Renaissance Faire. I should make Greensleeves my RINGTONE that's how much I love the Renaissance Faire. And as fairs go, Pennsylvania has a pretty amazing one. Not only is it 30 years old and ridiculously well attended, but it has it's own winery and includes at least 25 different theatrical and musical shows, including swordplay, jousting, and wenches galore. I mean, what isn't to love? They have enormous turkey legs and funny hats! They have mediocre Chardonnay and jesters! They have glassblowing and a human chess match and at least seven stalls selling WINGS! It's a strugglers paradise! I mean, good Lord, it's such a struggle that it passes through the struggle barrier (that's just before the sound barrier) and actually goes through to the other side and becomes not struggle but success! Do you know how rare that is? 

And so, as I enjoyed a hearty meal of Ye Olde Pannini and the Queens Greens, I found myself twisting my head with delight like a hysterical owl, desperately trying to take it all in. And my god, was there a lot to see. There are so many people who travel all the way to Lancaster, PA to watch people in Elizabethian outfits mangle UK accents, it's insane. And who I am to judge, really, since I'm clearly one of them. But considering that judging is like a form of breathing to me, may I just raise one point of censure, not to the Faire itself, but to the other guests of the event. As everyone knows, the Ren Faire (as those in the know call it) is an opportunity to dress up in period clothing and escape the realities of 2010 while still enjoying the amenities (period clothing, yes, period toliets, not so popular for some reason). But it's called the RENAISSANCE Faire, people, not the Elven Dr. Who Battlestar Galactica Belly Dancing Victorian Goth Slutty Vampire Disney Princess Faire! I mean, how could you even fit that name on a commemorative cup? Shape up, Pennsylvania residents, and when you come to the Faire, make damn sure you come prepared. That being said, thank you so much for the Hot Topic fashion show, that was fun. But maybe I should just relax, and take some advice from one of my favorite fictional characters, Howard Wolowitz:


Howard Wolowitz: Renaissance fairs aren't about historical accuracy. They're about taking chubby girls who work at Kinkos and lacing them up in corsets so tight their bosom jumps out and says "howdy". 
Sheldon Cooper: Bosoms would not have said "howdy" in the Fifteenth Century. If anything, they would have said "Huzzah!" 
Howard Wolowitz: I don't care what the bosoms say, Sheldon. I just want to be part of the conversation. 


Wise words, indeed, fine Sage, wise words indeed.